Death in a Mirror
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: You never know who you are going to run into in a waiting room...  warnings:  angst and a bad word


I hate the smell of antiseptic. It makes me want to vomit and I know, without giving it much conscious thought, that I will be burning this suit the second I'm out of here – all of it, right down to my socks and shorts. I want nothing to remind me of this God awful mission.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I found in that cell, that mass of blood and tissue that had been my partner. Oh, I made them suffer, but not enough. I wished them an hour of agony for every moment of pain he'd had to bear. But the human body is a fragile thing; it breaks easily, well, easily in some cases. Illya did not break.

Now I sat in the waiting room in Medical while the doctors struggled. The surgery had been touch and go; I knew the prognosis was bad when the surgeon wouldn't even meet my eyes afterwards, wouldn't even offer me a word of encouragement.

They wouldn't let me in to see him, a first for Medical; usually where one partner went, the other followed, but I had a feeling Illya was going someplace where I wasn't welcome, at least not yet.

A shape filled the door and I suppose I must have gasped. A black hooded figure, not exactly what I would have expected and yet why wouldn't Death be haunting the halls of Medical? But not this close to Illya. The figure took a step forward and I sighed. A blacked hooded sweat shirt, not a shroud. My mind was really playing tricks with me tonight. Still after three days with little sleep, it wasn't unusual.

My face must have betrayed something for the figure tossed back the hood. The dark haired man grinned at me. "Mr. Solo, I'm sorry I startled you."

"No need to apologize, Dr…"

"Tod…one 'd'." A thought flashed into my sleep-deprived brain and I chuckled. "What's wrong?"

"If you spell Tod with one 'd,' it's German for Death."

"I didn't know that… I guess it's good that I went into psychiatry instead of becoming a medical doctor then." He sat down beside me and leaned back, crossing his legs. "The Big Man Upstairs thought I should come and have a little talk with you."

That's a bad, bad sign. If Waverly was preparing me… getting me ready…

"Don't count him out yet," I muttered, staring at the backs of my hands. They were bruised and scraped, but I couldn't feel the pain I knew must be there. It was as if they were numb; as if I were numb.

"Who, Mr. Solo?" The doc's eyes were so dark; it was like looking into a bottomless well. I don't trust psychiatrists. They make you say things, think things that are better left unsaid, unthought. Yet for some reason, I felt strangely at ease with this man. Odd really…

"Illya, my partner, he's not dead yet..."

He smiled, warm and genuine. It gave me a sort of visual pat on the back. "No, indeed, he isn't. He's a fighter. He'll not go willingly, but he's very tired. He's been fighting hard for a long time."

"I know."

"But he needs a reason to keep fighting, Napoleon." The voice was soft, almost hypnotic.

"What can I do? I'd exchange places with him in an instant if I could." I was just so fucking tired. "Illya's everything to me, brother, friend, hell; he's even closer to me than a lover."

"You should tell him that then; let him know that there is a reason to hang around. He's starting to run low on them right about now."

"They won't let me in to see him."

"I think they will." He took my elbow and even through the layers of shirt and jacket, I was stunned at the coolness of his grasp. I stood with him, it wasn't as if I had a choice, and followed.

We started to turn into Intensive Care and a nurse spoke up…"Mr. Solo, you can't -" She gasped, turned pale, and backed away. I glanced over at the doctor, who merely smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"I have an odd effect on women at times."

Illya had more tubes going in and out than an octopus has legs. I found his hand, cold and limp, on the sheet and took it, stroking it with my thumb. Glancing over at the doc again, I started to talk. For the first time in our years together, I told Illya exactly how much he meant to me, how deeply I cared, how hard life would be without him beside me. I felt no conscious passage of time, I just talked.

Slowly, I realized the hand in mine was warmer and then I felt the fingers twitch. Looking up I saw sleepy blue eyes looking at me, studying me mutely. I grinned and squeezed his hand; the responding squeeze was weak, but it was there, along with a promise.

"He's awake?" I glanced over at the nurse's voice. "I've got to get the doctor." She went off at a near run and I felt the weight of the world coming off my shoulders. I knew the road to recovery would still be long and hard, but we'd taken the first step.

I don't know what possessed me, but I leaned forward and kissed Illya's head, what little bit of it not hidden by thick bandages. He blinked, as if acknowledging the sentiment and sending it back to me.

"What did I tell you, Doc?" But I was alone. Somehow Dr. Tod, with one 'd', had left.

It was months later while I was having a routine chest X-ray that I discovered that there was no Dr. Tod, with one 'd' in UNCLE's employment nor had there ever been. A quick check with Research didn't turn up a single record, even in the whole of the state.

Then I look over at my partner, feet on his desk, as he purposefully ignores the reports I'd hidden in his 'In' basket. He wasn't supposed to have survived, but he did. Seven months later, he's drinking a Coke, reading a comic book and I don't care that I'll never really know who that man was. I have my partner back by my side and that's enough for me.


End file.
